PROLOGUE.

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CURIOUS READERS,

The occupation of writing eclogues, at a time when poetry is generally regarded with such little favour, will not, I fancy, be counted as so praiseworthy a pursuit, but that it may be necessary especially to justify it to those who, following the varying tastes of their natural inclination, esteem every taste differing from it as time and labour lost. But since it concerns no man to justify himself to intellects that shut themselves up within bounds so narrow, I desire only to reply to those who, being free from passion, are moved, with greater reason, not to admit any varieties of popular poetry, believing that those who deal with it in this age are moved to publish their writings on slight consideration, carried away by the force which passion for their own compositions is wont to have on the authors. So far as this is concerned, I can urge for my part the inclination I have always had for poetry, and my years, which, having scarcely passed the bounds of youth, seem to permit pursuits of the kind. Besides, it cannot be denied that studies in this art (in former times so highly esteemed and rightly) carry with them no inconsiderable advantages: such as enriching the poet (as regards his native tongue); and acquiring a mastery over the tricks of eloquence comprised in it, for enterprises that are loftier and of greater import; and opening a way so that the narrow souls that wish the copiousness of the Castilian tongue to be checked by the conciseness of the ancient speech, may, in imitation of him, understand that it offers a field open, easy, and spacious, which they can freely traverse with ease and sweetness, with gravity and eloquence, discovering the variety of acute, subtle, weighty, and elevated thoughts, which, such is the fertility of Spanish men of genius, Heaven's favourable influence has produced with such profit in different parts, and every hour is producing in this happy age of ours, whereof I can be a sure witness, for I know some men who, with justice and without the impediment I suffer, could safely cover so dangerous a course. But so common and so diverse are men's difficulties, and so various their aims and actions, that some, in desire of glory, venture, others, in fear of disgrace, do not dare, to publish that which, once disclosed, must needs endure the uncertain, and well-nigh always mistaken, judgment of the people. I have given proof of boldness in publishing this book, not because I have any reason to be confident, but because I could not determine which of these two difficulties was the greater: whether that of the man who, wishing to communicate too soon the talent he has received from Heaven, lightly ventures to offer the fruits of his genius to his country and friends, or that of him who, from pure scrupulousness, sloth, or dilatoriness, never quite contented with what he does and imagines, counting as perfect only that which he does not attain, never makes up his mind to disclose and communicate his writings. Hence, just as the daring and confidence of the one might be condemned, by reason of the excessive license which accompanies security; so, too, the mistrust and tardiness of the other is vicious, since late or never does he by the fruits of his intellect and study benefit those who expect and desire such aids and examples, to make progress in their pursuits. Shunning these two difficulties, I have not published this book before now, nor yet did I desire to keep it back longer for myself alone, seeing that my intellect composed it for more than for my pleasure alone. I know well that what is usually condemned is that no one excels in point of the style which ought to be maintained in it, for the prince of Latin poetry was blamed for having reached a higher level in some of his eclogues more than in others; and so I shall not have much fear that any one may condemn me for having mingled philosophical discourses with some loving discourses of shepherds, who rarely rise beyond treating of things of the field, and that with their wonted simplicity. But when it is observed (as is done several times in the course of the work) that many of the disguised shepherds in it were shepherds only in dress, this objection falls to the ground. The remaining objections that might be raised as regards the invention and ordering may be palliated by the fixed intention of him who reads, if he will do so with discretion, and by the wish of the author, which was to please, doing in this what he could and actually did, achieve; for even though the work in this part do not correspond to his desire, he offers others, yet to come, of better taste and greater art.

BY LUIS GÁLVEZ DE MONTALVO.

TO THE AUTHOR.

SONNET.

What time thy neck and shoulders thou didst place,
Submissive, 'neath the Saracenic yoke,
And didst uphold, with constancy unbroke
Amidst thy bonds, thy faith in God's own grace,
Heaven rejoiced, but earth was for a space,
Without thee, well-nigh widowed: desolate,
Filled with lament and sadness for thy state,
Was left the Muses' royal dwelling-place.
But since that, from amidst the heathen host,
Which kept thee close, thy manly soul and tongue
Thou didst unto thy native land restore,
Heaven itself of thy bright worth makes boast,
The world greets thy return with happy song,
And the lost Muses Spain receives once more.

BY DON LUIS DE VARGAS MANRIQUE.

SONNET.

In thee the sovran gods their mighty power,
Mighty Cervantes, to the world declared.
Nature, the first of all, for thee prepared
Of her immortal gifts a lavish store:
Jove did his lightning on his servant pour,
The living word that moves the rocky wall:
That thou in purity of style mightst all
With ease excel, Diana gave her dower:
Mercury taught thee histories to weave:
The strength Mars gave thee that doth nerve thine arm:
Cupid and Venus all their loves bestowed:
'Twas from Apollo that thou didst receive
Concerted song: from the Nine Sisters charm
And wisdom: shepherds from the woodland god.

BY LÓPEZ MALDONADO.

SONNET.

Out from the sea they issue and return
Unto its bosom when their course is o'er,
As to the All-Mother they return once more,
The children who have left her long forlorn.
She is not lesser made whene'er they go,
Nor prouder when their presence they restore;
For she remaineth whole from shore to shore,
And with her waters aye her pools o'erflow.
Thou art the sea, oh Galatea fair!
The rivers are thy praises, the reward
Whereby thou winnest immortality.
The more thou givest to us, thou canst spare
The more; though all before thy feet have poured
Their tribute, yet thou canst not greater be.

GALATEA.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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